Wandra clapped some more. “That’s fine, Cal. Who’s winning?”
“Who else? The finest mathematical physicist in the universe. The Supremi incumbent doesn’t have a chance, unless he can stall the election until Sor Hi is dead.”
From his coolsuit Sorrel unhitched his comlink to Daisy. “Well, since everybody else is caught up in the election, we might as well be too.”
They listened to the reports. This time it was with more pleasure than Sorrel had felt the last time politics interfered with work, when the Supremi ascended to leadership.
From time to time Sor Hi would return, say polite words to Sorrel and the rest of the humans, then launch into vibrant discussions with his advisors. Each time he returned he was more confident, more mature, more capable. Once the broadcasts told of an assassination attempt on him, but even as Sorrel’s hands grew clammy, Sor Hi came bursting into the cavern, reassuring them he was all right. “If nobody tries to kill you, then nobody’s taking you seriously,” he explained cheerfully. “At least I know that people are interested.”
“I want to help him,” Sorrel muttered as Sor Hi burst off again in a whirlwind of activity.
“I know. You’ve said it before. Nobody’s going to pay any attention to you,” Wandra replied.
Four hours later, Sor Hi returned again. He dismissed his advisors to talk to the humans. “Would you like to be with me in the Hall of Choosing? I would be honored by your presence when the vote is taken.”
No offworlder, Sorrel knew, had ever attended a Rosan election. “Thank you,” Sorrel said. “We’d be honored as well.”
Two two-story platforms rose out of the sea of Rosan faces there in the Hall—an awesome cavern, with as much space as the largest of human spacedomes. On the lower level of each platform the most important advisors of each candidate stood, answering detailed questions for the media, and on the higher level stood each candidate himself, describing his plans, hopes, and dreams, pulling his audience into those dreams and making those dreams their own. The room was filled with talking, listening, reading, and watching, all of which had an intensity that Sorrel had never imagined. Wandra leaned over to him. “You know, you can almost see the information in this room; you can see the knowledge being transmitted in wave after wave.”
Sorrel nodded.
Suddenly a hush fell; the voting began at counting booths scattered throughout the Hall.
Then it was over; the loudspeakers announced Sor Hi’s victory. An awesome cheer began and ended; Sor Hi gave his inauguration address. It lasted a full minute and a half. A second cheer began—but the noise of a violent explosion shattered the joy. The vibration threw Sorrel to the floor, but he leaped up again even as he realized he was falling. He ran to catch the tumbling body of the new Bloodbond, Sor Hi.
Muscles tore and his back wrenched as Sorrel caught Sor Hi in his arms. Together they fell back to the platform, with Sorrel twisting to protect Sor Hi as much as possible.
Sorrel groaned and rolled over. A Rosan with the medic’s medallion leaned over Sor Hi. “He’s alive,” the medic announced. Sorrel sighed, rolled over again, winced at the new pain in his back, and fell into unconsciousness.
When he rolled over again, he found himself in a comfortable bed, his own bed on the ship. He heard the high-pitched, hummingbird sound of a Rosan chuckling, and opened his eyes to look toward the sound.
Sor Hi lay propped in a cot, looking back at him. “Thank you, Parent. And congratulations. We have won.”
“What happened?”
“Another assassination attempt. This one succeeded, but not well enough. I have lived long enough. The Supremi bloodlines have been ordered diluted. And they have no immortal beings to protect their dreams from my orders, as I have you to protect mine.”
Sorrel looked at the wounds and bandages covering Sor Hi’s body. Yes, the assassins had succeeded all too truly. A wounded Rosan had little time left—his body would bum its layers of stored nutrient in a furious attempt to repair the damage, leading to swift death by starvation.
Sorrel rose slowly and painfully from the bed. “Can I get you anything?”
Sor Hi’s eyes drifted absently around the room. “No. I am happy here.”
Sorrel searched Sor Hi’s face with growing acuteness; the thickness was lifting from Sorrel’s mind. Sor Hi’s skin was drawn tight against his cheeks; death approached.
“ ‘May you die by a rising star,’ ” Sor Hi muttered. “Isn’t it funny? Ever since we went into the caves, no one has ever died by a rising star. I wonder what it would be like.”
With a horrified sense of awe and wonder, Sorrel looked at his watch. He found what he had somehow already known: the sunrise was coming “Follow me,” he told Sor Hi, “I have something to show you.”
The top of the ship peeked out from the cavemworks; there Sorrel and Sor Hi found a view of Khayyam in the morning. Now the sun too peeked out from the horizon, and touched the shallow pools of water dotting Khayyam’s surface. In that fiery touch the warm water quivered, and bubbled, and broke into boiling. Clouds of steam rose into the purplish sky, condensing into rain as it rose, falling, and boiling again into steam as it neared the surface. Frenzied rainbows danced across those spinning almost- rainstorms, only to disappear as the rains evaporated until the next sunrise.
Sor Hi exhaled sharply. “It is incomparable,” he whispered in awe. “My children must remember this beauty for me.” He looked at Sorrel. “And they must remember you too.” He drew a last hard breath. “I…” The surprise of sudden insight entered his eyes. “It’s even harder for you,” he said. “You…must keep on living.”
Sorrel sobbed. “Yes, my son.” The honeysuckle overtook them, each in its own way.
They found Sorrel there in the nose of the ship, and moved him gently to his own room. For three days he lay there, not speaking, not eating, not moving. He was aware of people when they came to him, he heard them when they spoke, he felt them as they hooked the feeder to him, but he did not care. Deep in its own quiet his mind waited, waited for something to trigger it back to life. Sorrel didn’t know what he waited for, and about that, too, he did not care.
On the fourth day they told him the FTLcom was ready. Now they could project a three-dimensional image to Lazara and get one back in return. They told him they were about to make contact with Balcyrak.
It was the trigger his mind awaited. He looked up at them, then rose and followed them to the FTL lab.
Balcyrak studied him quietly, smiling gently. “Do you still hate us, Man Everwood?”
Sorrel looked down, shook his head, “No. I have walked in your shoes.”
“Yes. It is not easy, to be a Lazarine.”
Sorrel started to speak, choked, shook his head.
Balcyrak continued. “I want to thank you for all you have done for us. My whole race thanks you, and our civilization shall sing of you, our savior.”
Sorrel stared at Balcyrak for a moment, then realized what he meant. Balcyrak had lied earlier. There had been no question of who would win the next Lazaran/Man war, had one occurred. Sorrel had saved the beings who had killed his wife; he did not mind. “I’m glad.” He felt weary. “By the way, Balcyrak, there’s something I’m curious about—how old are you?”
Balcyrak relaxed in his chair. “Nearly fourteen millennia, I would reckon, by your measure.”
Sorrel pondered that. “Just about entering middle age, for someone who lives 25,000 years.”
“Yes.”
Sorrel sighed. “It would be wonderful, to be almost immortal like you.” Balcyrak sat up, looked sharply at him and through him, as Sorrel started to smile. Balcyrak saw the smile and chuckled. “Yes, almost immortal.”
Together they started to laugh, a rich powerful laughter that even the dark universe could not deny.
Stanley Schmidt has a varied background, including formal training and professional experience as a physicist.
One of the last writers developed by legendary e
ditor John W. Campbell, he was a frequent contributor to Analog before becoming its editor in 1978.
Aliens from Analog Page 43
